


Bonds of Light

by LordofLies



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Group Sex, M/M, Multiple Partners, Oral Sex, Other, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Wing Lives AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 19:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10883817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordofLies/pseuds/LordofLies
Summary: Wing survives the fight with Braid, and when Dai Atlas extends his offer of joining the Circle to Drift, the ex-con gives it some consideration.  There are a lot of reasons to say no, but eventually Drift decides to take a chance and believe in something new (and, perhaps, someone).  But there is a certain trial of initiation that Drift must undergo first, which tests his newfound resolve, but may serve to make him stronger in the end.





	Bonds of Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ruenesca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruenesca/gifts).



> Whew, this fic is LONG overdue, but here it is. Was definitely an interesting experience to write, so I hope you guys enjoy it!

“Drift, may I speak with you?”

Drift looked up from where he sat with folded arms at Wing’s bedside.  The jet was still in recharge, recovering from the wound that had almost claimed his life.  The gaping hole in his chest was nearly closed now thanks to Redline’s swift response time and agile fingers, but every time Drift offlined his optics he could still see it—torn and gushing energon while the bright white of Wing’s spark guttered away.

“Sure,” Drift said gruffly, sweeping his optics over Dai Atlas.

“Come with me for a moment.  We should let Wing rest.”

 _I’m guarding him_ , Drift wanted to say, but he bit the retort back.  Wing would be alright under the care of the medical staff.  The real reason Drift had refused to leave his side was for his own sake, not Wing’s.  He couldn’t shake the fear that if he let Wing out of his sight, the knight would die, and Drift didn’t know what he would do if that were to happen.  Didn’t know who he would be.

 _You made me question everything I thought I knew, every decision I’ve ever made_ , Drift thought as he rose to his pedes, gaze lingering on Wing’s sleeping form _.  I need you to show me where I go from here._

Dai Atlas led him out of the medical ward and down a windowed hall.  The city below them glittered in the sunlight, finally freed from beneath the stone.  It made all the difference, thought Drift.  Since the battle with the slavers, where Dai Atlas had finally cast aside cowardice for action, New Crystal City had stopped feeling like a cage.  Drift walked with a strange lightness to his step.  He felt buoyant and strangely light-headed.  After so long a time in such a small space, having all his pride and convictions shorn away, he felt shapeless and raw in the best way, like clay ready to be shaped into something new.

_Something better, hopefully._

“Drift.”

“Yes, Dai Atlas?” Drift asked, his voice even.  He wouldn’t bow to the senior knight’s authority, but neither would he mock or spurn him.  Even if he didn’t like the mech, Drift’s respect, and his gratitude, had been earned when Dai Atlas chose to raise the city and save Wing’s life.  There was a new, unspoken agreement between them.  Far from friendship, but no longer antagonistic.

“I would like to apologize to you, for the things that I said about you and the way I treated you during your stay with us.  I admit to being prejudiced against you for the badge you chose to wear, and to being stubborn in my refusal to accept change or a more active role in the universe.  It was a policy rooted in the intent to preserve our culture, but Wing made me realize that there is no point in preserving the cultural heritage of our kind while allowing the survivors of this war to continue killing themselves and bringing misery to the universe.”

“Yeah, Wing has the effect on people,” Drift said, wishing he could smile but finding himself unable to.  Dai Atlas nodded, sighing.

“Wing is one of the most highly regarded members of our order, and he means a great deal to me personally.  To lose him would have been to lose the best and brightest of us, and I don’t think we would have ever fully recovered from that loss.  I would not have recovered from it,” he added softly.

An odd mix of empathy and jealousy swirled low in Drift’s belly at the admission.  The exact nature of Wing’s relationship to Dai Atlas was still unclear, and this confession only clouded it further.

“But this is not only an apology,” Dai Atlas continued, before Drift could get a word in.  “Your actions were commendable.  You are a fierce warrior, and Wing has taught you much in the months that you’ve been here, even if it does not seem that way to you.  You chose loyalty to Wing, and to this city and its people, over your allegiance to the Decepticons.  Your actions speak to your change of spark, and I see a great deal of potential in you.  You are the kind of mech who lives for a cause, and we can offer you one.”

“You can’t seriously be—” Drift started, optics wide with disbelief.

“I’m offering you a place with us, Drift.” Dai Atlas pressed onward, “not as a prisoner, not as a citizen, but as a Knight of Light.”

Drift gaped at him.

“Your acceptance into the circle is a bit unconventional, since you are already a skilled fighter and Wing has begun training you in our particular style.  As such, I think it would be acceptable to the council if you were to undergo the Rite of Unity early.  This ceremony is a critical part of becoming a member of the circle.  It’s about forging bonds with the other knights, with whom you will become like spark siblings.  At the end of the ceremony, you choose your great sword, and are officially named a knight of light.  You would continue your training after this, but I believe that you have earned the right to stand among us as an equal, and the details would work themselves out in time.”

“You _are_ serious,” Drift whispered, his disbelief changing quickly to confusion and uncertainty.  Of all the things he had expected Dai Atlas might have to say to him, this hadn’t even been on the list.

“Extremely,” Dai Atlas confirmed, his expression grave.  “We have remained unchanging for too long.  You would be our first new member in a very, very long time.  I believe you have much to offer, and I know that Wing would be happy to officially take you on as a student.”

“A student…” Drift echoed.  Of course.  He _was_ a student, wasn’t he?  All the time he’d spent trying not to hear what Wing was telling him, and now, when the jet was silent, he wanted nothing more than to swallow every word that fell from Wing’s lips. _An acolyte at the feet of a saint_ , he thought, with no small amount of bitterness.

“There is a place here for you, if you wish to take it.”

“I… need time,” Drift said finally, surprising himself that he hadn’t outright refused.  Hadn’t he been telling himself this whole time that he didn’t belong here?  That this place could never be anything but a cage?  And yet he thought of Wing, still sleeping in the sick ward, and swallowed.

Dai Atlas nodded.  “Take as long as you need.  It’s not a decision to be made lightly.  Ask Wing about it, once he recovers.”

With that, Dai Atlas walked away, leaving Drift standing by the window.  He looked out over the city again, and wondered what it would be like to call it home.

~*~

It was another two days before Wing finally awoke, and a full week before he was able to be up and about.  Redline had told Drift that Wing’s wound had been grave, and he would be fragile for a while.  Without even being aware of it, Drift filled the empty hours that he no longer spent having his frame beaten into the ground by fretting over Wing and making sure his needs were met.  It got to the point that Wing had to say something to him.

“Drift, you don’t need to treat me like I’m made of glass.  I’m recovering well, and I can take care of myself.  I appreciate that you care, but… truly, take some time to care for yourself,” the knight insisted as Drift tried to slide him another cube of medical grade energon.

“It’s my fault you nearly died,” Drift said, unperturbed by Wing’s protestations.  “I have to take responsibility for that.”  Wing sighed, eyeing the cube.

“There’s something else going on that you’re not telling me about.  You’ve been brooding.”

“I don’t brood,” Drift snapped, glaring at Wing as the flier traced the rim of the cube with his finger.

“Sulking, then.”

“I’m not sulking!”  Drift snarled, feeling a familiar frustration rise up inside his chest.  Wing’s gaze was unwavering.

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m…” Drift struggled to find the right words.  He sighed, shoulders dropping as a heaviness settled into his frame.  He sat down at the table, unable to meet Wing’s optics.

“Dai Atlas… offered to make me a knight,” he confessed, glancing at Wing to gauge his reaction.

“Truly?” Wing asked, a brilliant smile breaking across his face.

Drift’s vents hitched, ensnared by Wing’s vibrant joy.  The jet was truly beautiful.  The most beautiful mech Drift had ever met.  He illuminated everything.

“Yes.  I’ve been trying to make up my mind.”

“You’re unsure?” Wing asked, concerned.  “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’,” Drift exclaimed, incredulous.  “I’m a decepticon.  I’m a killer.  I have… so much fuel on my hands.  I’ve done so many terrible things… and worst, I betrayed you.  I almost got you killed.  I almost got this whole city destroyed, or enslaved, because I was such a selfish, ignorant piece of slag that I couldn’t see goodness and integrity when it was looking me right in the face and offering me everything I’d ever wanted!”

“Drift,” Wing murmured, reaching across the table to lay his palm over the back of Drift’s trembling hand.

“To become a knight is to shed the past, to become something new, part of something greater.”  He eyed the unmarked steel of Drift’s chest.  “And I see that you have already begun to do so.  You’re not a decepticon anymore, and you have paid your debt to this city.  You fought with us.  You were ready to die for us.  All has been forgiven.  You have done more for this city than anyone can repay you for.  You brought us out into the sun again!  At last, we can truly be of use to the people of this galaxy.  We can be more than relics, hidden and rotting beneath the crust of this world.”

There was a brilliant intensity in Wing’s eyes that ignited something in Drift’s chest.  It felt like a piece of Wing’s spark had been transferred to himself.  He could feel the knight’s conviction, his earnest hope, his eagerness to act and spread his message of peace and justice across the galaxy.  There was no malice in Wing’s heart, no desire for revenge or hunger for power.  Wing was imperfect and at times naive, but he had a good spark—one of the best sparks Drift had ever encountered.  His personality was magnetic, and Drift felt drawn to him like a satellite pulled into the gravity of a star.

“If anyone must ask forgiveness, it’s me,” Wing said, a look of guilt suddenly obscuring that brilliance.  “I kept you here against your will, as a prisoner.  I broke you down, in many ways, physically and emotionally.”  He looked Drift in the eyes, refusing to turn away from this admission.  “This was my intent, and I am not proud of it.  I knew you were suffering, and instead of freeing you I asserted my authority through physical violence.  I knew that you had no hope of beating me, not without millennia of training…  my objective was to humble you, though I know I also humiliated you at times, in an effort to make you change your point of view.  You have every right to hate me.”

“Wing.” Drift frowned as the jet bowed his head, awaiting Drift’s judgement.  “I don’t hate you.  I stopped hating you a while ago.  Everything you said was true, I won’t deny that.  I’d be lying to both of us.  But all that?  All those things you did?  You did that to Deadlock.  I had become… something awful.  Twisted.  Angry.  Full of hate.  I trusted no one, cared for no one.  I had a cause once, and I lost it to the war.  I won’t shift the blame to anyone else.  My actions were my own, but I became so used to the violence, drawn so deep into that pit… that everyone around me had become an enemy, even my own men.  I hesitated to kill no one.  I probably would have killed you too when we met, if I’d been armed.”

Drift swallowed, feeling vaguely sick, as if the act of admitting the guilt that had begun to congeal inside his chest over the past few months was the purging of a physical toxin rather than an emotional one.

“Your lessons were harsh, but nothing else would have gotten through to me.  If you had let me go, I would have gone back out into the world, still spewing that hate everywhere I went.  It would have killed me sooner rather than later, and I don’t know how many more deaths I would have caused before I finally earned my own.  So, you have no reason to feel guilty.  You saved my life, when anyone else would have given up on me.  You made me remember who I am, and I can’t ever repay you for that.”

Wing gave him a sad look.

“Thank you for reassuring me, Drift.  I’d like to say that my reasons for keeping you here, for wanting to change your mind, were entirely altruistic, but that would be a lie.  I’m a selfish creature, truthfully.  I didn’t want to lose you.  I still don’t.  I would be thrilled if you became a knight, and I would want to continue your training, if you were amenable.  But the decision is yours, and if you choose to leave, then I will let you go, and I promise you, I will never forget you, and we will meet again, if it’s in my power to make such a thing possible.”

Drift was silent, Wing’s words running circles through his mind.  Wing…wanting him to stay?  What did that mean?  Did he feel the same?  It was overwhelming, and the vulnerability of the situation was making Drift want to crawl out of his own frame.  He needed to escape those golden eyes for a little while.  He couldn’t think straight with Wing watching him.

“I need… to think a little more,” Drift said, unable to meet Wing’s gaze.  “Alone, if I could.”

“Of course,” Wing said, rising to his feet.  “It’s a difficult decision.  Don’t rush it.  I’ll be with Axe, if you need me.”

Drift kept his gaze trained on the table, shoulders sagging with the weight of his conflicting emotions as he heard the door close behind Wing.

~*~

It took another three days before Drift was ready to make his decision.  He made his way to Dai Atlas’s office in the central hall of the city, and rapped on the door.  Dai Atlas greeted him, ushering him into the rooms with his usual solemnity.  Drift looked around at the shelves filled with datapads and the stacks of them on Dai Atlas’s desk and realized with some faint amusement that any position of power really did come with an awful lot of paperwork.

“You’ve made your decision, then?” Dai Atlas asked.  Drift looked up at him, squaring his shoulders and straightening his back.  He was still tiny compared to Dai Atlas, and the triple-changer seemed even bigger as he loomed like a giant inside a room which was just barely big enough to accommodate his size.

“I have.”

“And?”

“I’ve decided to accept.  I want to become a knight,” Drift said, feeling strangely as if he was watching himself say the words from afar.  Dai Atlas blinked.

“I have to admit that I am surprised.  I wasn’t sure if you would say yes.  What was it that convinced you?”

“You were right when you said I need a cause.  I can’t stand being idle, and right now I have nowhere else to go.  I want to end this war, but I won’t go back to the Decepticons, and I can’t… become an Autobot.  I know I don’t deserve this city or what it has to offer, but maybe I can earn a place here and make amends for the things I’ve done.”

“And Wing?”

“What about Wing?” Drift asked, cursing himself at how defensive he sounded.

“Was he not a factor in your decision?”

“I’ve hurt him, and nearly gotten him killed.  I don’t want that to happen again.  I need to make amends to him too.”

“I see,” Dai Atlas said knowingly.  “Well, then if you truly wish to become one of us, there are a few things you need to know.  I told you before that all knights must undergo an initiation ceremony.  This is to connect new members to the rest of the circle, to forge themselves into a new link the in the chain, so to speak.  Usually this ceremony takes place many years into a knight’s training, and they have many years to prepare themselves for it.  You’re unique, and because of that I believe that you would benefit from being accepted among us as an equal earlier than most.  You have already begun your training with Wing, and you’ve proven yourself a capable warrior.  You’ve even wielded Wing’s great sword.”

Drift started at that, remembering how strange it had been to hold Wing’s blade in his hand, the strange tug on his spark, as it were swelling and being drained away at the same time.  He’d felt another life-force brush against his own, but his anger had kept him focused on killing Braid, and not on the voice inside his mind.

“Yes, I saw that,” Dai Atlas continued, noticing Drift’s surprise.  “Not everyone can command the great swords that way and come out unscathed.  They’re more than simple artifacts, as you likely realized.  They have a kind of consciousness of their own.  A sword and its bearer are a matched pair, and the blade chooses its bearer as much as you choose the blade.”

“Is this ritual how I choose a sword?”

“That is how it ends, yes.  But the first part of the ritual is about your place among us, about knowing the other cybertronians who you will live and die beside.  The connection we have to one another is deep.  It is powerful.  The Circle is a brotherhood, smaller and more intimate than the factions you have previously known.  To forge these bonds is a matter of trust, of showing vulnerability, and sharing joy and pain alike.”

“…so what does this ritual entail, exactly?” Drift asked slowly, a sense of foreboding twining around his spark.

“At the start of the ritual you will join fourteen other mechs, myself included, in a chamber below the central hall.  We will all drink a special energon, which has the effect of lessening anxiety and promoting a desire for intimacy.  We have found that this works best since tensions can become rather heightened and it makes the ceremony difficult to continue with.  After this, I will read our oath to you, and you will swear by it, agreeing to live by our creed and uphold our convictions.  Once this portion is completed, you will participate in ritual interface with the other members present at the ceremony, until you have introduced yourself and been introduced to each of them, and exchanged some form of intimate connection.  After this is completed, you will be cleaned, and then you will choose your blade.  Does that answer your question?”

Drift gaped at him, not quite believing what he was hearing.

“Interface?  With a dozen strangers?”

“The purpose of the ceremony is to ensure that they will not be strangers to you.  You will forge unbreakable bonds that will support you throughout your life with us.”

“You’re not joking.”

“I am not,” said Dai Atlas, looking down at Drift in a strangely pitying way, as if he couldn’t understand why Drift was having a problem with this idea.

 _This is sick_ , Drift wanted to say, but he bit down on his glossa to keep the comment in.  Of course this is what would be asked of him.  He had been ready for anything, except this.  Why hadn’t Wing told him?  Especially since he knew about Drift’s past… that the ex-con could never possibly be okay with something like this.  It felt far too much like being _used_.

When Drift had joined the Decepticons, when he’d become Deadlock, he’d sworn that he would never interface with anyone again except on his own terms, by his own rules.  These were not his terms, and he felt like he was falling back into the dark.  Deadlock had kept everyone at arm’s length, been brutal enough that no one had ever tried to force him into something he didn’t want again.  But now he was Drift again, and here he was, back at the start.  A buymech asked to whore himself just to have a future.  He wanted to scream, to refuse.  He opened his mouth.

“And if I tell you I won’t do it?  What then?” he asked, optics hard and challenging.

“If it’s not something you can consent to, whatever your reason may be, then we will not force it on you.  You can still become a knight, and choose a sword.”  Dai Atlas assured him.  Drift frowned.

“What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch.  We don’t force mechs to interface against their will.  Such a thing would be appalling.”

“But how many of you have refused to do this… initiation.  Tell me that.  Any?”  Drift hissed.

“Only two knights ever refused to participate in the interfacing aspect of the ritual.”

“Why?”

“That is not for me to tell you, but one of them you know.  Redline.”  Drift blinked, surprised.

“You would not be looked down upon for declining to participate in the ceremony, and you do not need to justify your reasons.  Interfacing is harder for some mechs than for others, for many reasons.  And remember, most mechs have years to prepare themselves mentally for this ritual and become accustomed to the idea, while you have not.  We can arrange an alternate ceremony if you are truly against it.”

“I can…  it’s not necessary?” Drift asked, realizing how tight his armor had become only as it began to loosen.

“It is not.  Would you rather decline, and go through the ceremony without interfacing?”

Drift paused, considering.  It didn’t _seem_ as if there would be any consequences for refusing.  He could still become a knight, and Redline was a well-respected member of the Circle.  For these mechs, who had likely never had to sell their bodies to stay fueled, interfacing must not carry the same weight of shame and powerlessness that Drift had learned to associate it with. 

It had been a long time since then, but he still carried those scars with him.  Not so much a fear of interfacing, but a fear of commodification, of having no choice, no voice, no hope.  But there _was_ a choice here, and knowing that such a power rested in his own two hands was what allowed Drift to actually consider it.

He looked up at Dai Atlas, uncertain.

“Would… Wing… be part of this?” he asked, feeling his spark racing in his chassis.

“I doubt anything would keep him from it,” Dai Atlas answered, a small smile on his face.

Drift ducked his head, staring down at the floor.  He could say no, avoid this whole situation, move on with his training and get his own great sword, and no one would judge him for his choice.  Or, he could go through with it, and interface with a dozen mechs in some bizarre ceremony, including the mech standing in front of him.  Primus, Dai Atlas was a giant.  Drift didn’t know if he’d ever had a spike from a mech so large inside him.  There was a strange twinge in his valve at the thought, and Drift swallowed.  And if Wing were there, then that would mean…

Drift bit his lip as an image of Wing sitting astride his lap, impaled deep on Drift’s spike, suddenly assaulted his processor.  Wing’s mouth was open in a moan of pleasure, his valve warm and wet around Drift’s spike as he slid himself up and down its length.  Drift’s mouth felt dry and his interface array throbbed with sudden arousal as he smothered the fantasy.

If he said yes… then Wing would be one of the mechs he would be interfacing with.  And Drift would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want that.  He did want it.  Very much.  But frag him, he was too much of a coward to ask Wing outright.  Or maybe the reason he hadn’t asked was the guilt, or that nearly losing Wing had shown Drift just how important the jet had become to him.  He cared about him, more than he was willing to admit.  And if consenting to this ceremony would mean having a chance to interface with Wing… then maybe he could handle the rest of it.  It’s not like he’d forgotten how to perform, after all.  He could play this game.  He could take what they threw at him.  He wasn’t afraid.

“I’ll do it.”

“You’re sure?” Dai Atlas asked.  Drift nodded firmly, jaw set.  “You keep surprising me, Drift.  Alright.  The ritual will take place tomorrow at sunset.  Come to the Hall of Light and Axe will guide you to the initiation chamber.”

“Alright.”  Drift turned to leave, but Dai Atlas stopped him.

“And you should know, if at any point in the ceremony you feel you are unable to continue, let us know, and we will stop.  It can be an emotionally intense experience, and mechs deal with it in different ways, but the ritual is not supposed to cause you pain.  This is a celebration, a new beginning.  Remember that.”  Drift nodded, and hurried out of the hall, back towards Wing’s apartment.

His body was thrumming with energy, both fear and excitement, as he transformed and raced along the streets back towards the northern quadrant of the city.

“Wing!” he called out into the apartment, “Wing, are you here?”  There was no response, and Drift checked all the rooms before concluding that Wing was not in the apartment.  Undeterred, Drift went to find Axe next.

“Sorry, lad.  Haven’t seen him,” the great black and yellow mech told Drift.  “Don’t fret too much, you’ll see him tomorrow.  Dai Atlas has probably already enlisted his help in setting everything up.  Take some time for yourself.  I know you’re anxious, but it will be time before you know it.”

“Yeah,” Drift sighed, the itch to tell Wing about his decision, and possibly about his feelings for the knight had begun to ebb.  If what Axe had said was correct, then Wing already knew about his choice.  He was a bit disappointed at not being able to tell the jet himself.  He had been looking forward to seeing that smile again.  But at the same time, as the weight of reality began to settle against Drift’s shoulders, he was somewhat glad he wouldn’t be seeing Wing until the ceremony.  To see him now would either mean acknowledging what was about to happen, or purposely avoiding it, both of which were unappealing prospects.

Having nothing much to do but wait, Drift wandered through the streets of the city until evening, admiring the beautiful architecture and still feeling a bit bewildered by the passing waves and smiles he received from other mechs on the street.  Already, they had begun to accept him.  Already, this city was becoming his home.  This was the right choice, he was sure of it.  It had to be.

~*~

It was strange, being alone in Wing’s apartment.  It felt empty without Wing there, and Drift felt his anxiety begin to creep back as the hours crawled forward.  He was going to have to interface with fourteen other mechs in less than a cycle.  The dread he’d felt in Dai Atlas’ office came slithering back as Drift ran what he knew over and over again through his processor.  Fourteen mechs with whom he’d have to engage in intimate relations.  He hoped for his own sake that Dai Atlas had meant interfacing in a broad sense, since he didn’t think his body could handle being taken by fourteen different mechs in one night.  He wasn’t thrilled by the idea of _anyone_ using his valve, but it was certain that he would have to soon.  It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him there.

Reasoning that it was better to do this now than regret not doing it later, Drift made himself comfortable on the couch and snapped his array covers open.  He pressurized his spike manually, inspecting it.  Redline had replaced his interface array along with many other parts of his frame during his initial rebuild.  The spike seal had been quick to come off, since self-servicing had been one of the only ways Drift managed to work off the frustrations and arousal that were a consistent result of sparring with Wing.  He’d harbored many fantasies of pounding Wing into the ground or the berth, making him scream and beg and sob.  Over time those fantasies had softened, and stopped altogether for a while when Drift’s guilt eclipsed his desires.  Now those feelings had returned, but their nature was entirely different from the frenzied, furious lust he’d felt for the jet when he’d first come to New Crystal City.

However, it wasn’t his spike that Drift was concerned about.  Carefully, he moved down to touch his valve, feeling the dry, smooth mesh against his fingertips.  His valve would also be sealed, and removing that one would be more difficult and more painful than removing the one from his spike.  The valve seal was inside, too deep for fingers to reach but shallow enough that even a small spike would have to break it before being able to fit entirely inside him.  Drift shuddered, not looking forward to the thought of having his seal broken during the ceremony.  That would certainly put a damper on his focus.  It would be easier if he could just deal with it now so it wouldn’t be an issue, but he had nothing he could use to break it…

Drift paused a moment, thinking.  Maybe… there was something in Wing’s room he could use.  He felt a bit bad, invading the jet’s space in such a way, but at the same time, given the circumstances, he didn’t think Wing was the kind of person who would fault him for this.

Not bothering to close his array covers, Drift got up and made his way to Wing’s room.  The jet didn’t have many possessions, but he had a few.  Other than the berth, there was a shelf of datapads and a few strange objects and minerals.  He poked around, opening cupboards and peering into cubbies until he found what he was looking for—a box of assorted interfacing toys.  He was a bit surprised to see so many, and he cautiously shuffled around inside the box until he found a false spike that looked about the right size.  He examined it, noticing two buttons on the end that made the object vibrate in his hand at different speeds.  Steeling himself, he took the toy back to the couch and sat down again, spark pulsing a little too fast inside his chest.

He set the toy down at his side and moved to stroke his spike, easing himself in to the familiar pleasure until the heat of arousal had begun to build under his pelvic plating and the spike had begun to weep lubricants.  He smeared them down the shaft to make the glide through his hand smoother, and when he began to feel the tight knot of an overload building at the base of the spike he switched to touching his valve again.  An experimental probe showed a hint of lubricant inside the entrance, but not enough to work with.  Impatient, and frustrated at his own lack of arousal, Drift gathered some of the lubricants from his spike and worked them into his exterior node, hips twitching at the sudden stimulation.  He tried to relax, rubbing little circles on the node and willing himself to lubricate enough to get this over with.

It only started to work when Drift found his mind drifting back to Wing, and he allowed himself to fantasize about the two of them together again.  He imagined that it was Wing sitting beside him, leaning over and rubbing at Drift’s node.  Drift groaned as his valve twinged and he felt a cool trickle of lubricant inside.  _Finally_ , he thought, continuing to rub at his node while his other hand moved to the entrance of his valve and he began to work his fingers inside, gathering up more lubricant and spreading it around to slick the entrance.  He imagined again that it was Wing’s fingers inside him, and the jet was crooning soft reassurances into his audial.  The lubricant was warm as it washed over his fingers, and Drift shuddered, reaching over to grab the false spike.  He spread his fingers a few more times, trying to stretch out the tight mesh as best he could.  After a few minutes, he grew impatient and withdrew his fingers, smearing the lubricant over the head of the false spike and bringing it to the valve entrance, pushing against the resisting mesh until the pain became too sharp and he drew it back.  He repeated the process over and over again, slowly working the head of the spike in with deeper and deeper increments.  He hissed as his body resisted the intrusion.  If he could just get the head inside…

Drift bit his lip, trying hard to think about Wing again, to make his body relax.  He thought about Wing straddling his thighs, the jet’s spike out and dripping, those golden optics burning bright with arousal.  The thought of Wing, wanting him, made Drift moan a little.  The pain of the pressure pushing insistently at his valve transmuted partially into pleasure as his valve flexed involuntarily.  Drift pressed onward. 

Wing’s spike, nosing between his thighs, dragging through his lubricants, pushing against the valve opening, demanding entrance.  Strangely, Drift found himself wanting to give it.  With a sharp gasp, the head of the spike popped inside him, and a shiver of pleasure travelled up his spinal strut, dulling the pain.  He began to move the false spike in little thrusts, feeling the now unfamiliar stretch of his internal mesh as the spike pushed through it, each thrust smoother than the last as the pleasure made his body produce yet more lubricant.

The building haze of pleasure was rudely interrupted when the head of the spike bumped against something inside Drift’s valve and sent a sharp stab of pain through his array.  He sucked in air between his denta and curled forward a bit, stilling the spike inside his valve.  There was the seal, then.  Time to do what he’d set out to do in the first place.

Trying so hard to relax that the effort backfired miserably, Drift began to thrust the false spike in and out again, careful not to go to deep and hit the seal again.  Curious, he hit one of the buttons on the end of the false spike and moaned as it began to vibrate inside him.  This was _much_ better than he had ever anticipated.  Pleasure began building again and Drift shuttered his optics and imagined it was Wing’s spike inside him, thrusting shallowly as the jet panted and gasped above him, lost in the pleasure of Drift’s new valve.

“Okay, okay,” Drift murmured to himself as he felt the buzz of overload building.  There was an itch deep inside his valve that he couldn’t reach, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to overload until he seal was broken.  He gritted his teeth, and with one sharp thrust, pushed the false spike all the way inside.  He cried out as pain blossomed inside him, jerking and shivering as the vibrating spike soothed and stimulated the injured mesh simultaneously.  He kept thrusting the toy, gritting his dentae through the pain until it began to ebb and pleasure took its place.  His inner thighs were soaked with lubricants now as he pushed the toy in until it bumped against the ceiling of the valve, stimulating the nodes there.  With a stifled cry, Drift finally overloaded, thighs clamping down tight against his hand, preventing him from moving the false spike.  He lay there, shuddering through the first valve overload he’d had in millennia, until his thighs fell apart and he withdrew the toy, shutting it off and letting it fall to the ground.

He felt a bit guilty at having used Wing’s toy, but at the same time, knowing that what had just been inside his own valve had likely once been in Wing’s was more arousing than Drift was willing to admit.  He staggered to his feet, legs feeling a bit weak and the pain from the seal break returning as a dull ache.  He looked down at his sticky thighs and sighed.  He would get cleaned up and then try and get some recharge.  And tomorrow he would go to the Hall of Light, where Axe would lead him to the ceremony and Drift’s life would change.  At least now he wouldn’t have to worry about the whole ordeal also being colored by an aching seal break.

~*~

Dai Atlas and Axe were both there to greet him at the entrance of the Citadel the following evening.  Drift allowed himself to be led through the massive doors, foreboding setting sticky around his spark casing.  He reminded himself that he’d consented to this, that he knew what was coming, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was a sacrifice being led to the slaughter.

The halls lengthened, and it wasn’t long before they began to descend deeper into the city, beneath the earth once again.  Drift kept his head high, betraying nothing of the seething anxiety just beneath his breastplate.

“We’re here,” Axe let him know as they approached an elaborately engraved door.  A pattern of swords and stars arched across it, illuminated by electric light.  Behind the door was a circular room.  The walls were metal, but the floor was stone.  Great swords of all sizes and hues hung around the room, and in the center was a low platform.  Drift didn’t need anyone to tell him what it was for.

Around the room were assembled a dozen mechs.  Some Drift recognized, others he did not.  All of them were painted in golden letters and glyphs.  As he entered the room, he caught sight of Wing, who made eye contact and smiled.  Drift opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but no words came out.  Wing tipped his head to the side, directing Drift’s attention to a red and black mech who had just approached him.

“This is for you,” the mech told him, offering Drift a flute of luminescent pink energon.  Drift accepted the glass suspiciously, taking in the syrupy smell.  High grade?

“Take a drink,” the mech offered, “then pass it to the mech beside you.”

 _This must be what Dai Atlas was talking about_ , Drift thought, eyeing the liquid as it bubbled gently.  _Some kind of drugged energon to make me more receptive to this_.

He didn’t want to drink it, but he had no reason to believe Dai Atlas had been lying when he said it wouldn’t remove his agency, only relax him.  He wasn’t sure he could go through with this without letting go of himself a little.

Drift tipped the glass back and swallowed, almost gagging at the sweetness of the energon.  He passed the glass to the person beside him, not looking to see who it was.  He could feel the energon filtering down his intake and into his lines, carrying a pleasant warmth with it.  He watched as the glass was passed around the participating mechs each took a sip, even Wing.

 _Works fast, whatever it is_ , Drift thought, a little sluggishly as he felt his core temperature begin to rise.

“Drift,” Dai Atlas said, drawing Drift’s gaze to him.  The leader of the circle stood before the central platform, arms crossed imposingly before him.

“You stand before us today as a light in the darkness.  You have travelled far, and your road has often been dark.  You have wandered without light, and without guidance, as have we all at one point or another.”

Drift felt something cool and wet touch the warm plating of his thigh and he startled, glancing down to see another mech with a paintbrush dipped in gold pressed against his armor.

“Don’t let me distract you,” the mech said softly, smiling at him.  Drift swallowed, turning back to look at Dai Atlas as he continued his monologue.

“You arrived among us a stranger, but tonight you will leave as one of us.  There are no secrets between circle members, no barriers, no falsehoods.  We are each of us only a part of a greater whole, only the stars that form a galaxy.  Alone, we can be extinguished, but united we burn eternal.”

Dai Atlas’ words were swimming in the fog of Drift’s mind, but he wasn’t sure if it was the high grade or the anxiety destroying his focus.  He was hearing the words, but understanding little of them.  Lights in the dark.  Unity.  Drift allowed his optics to close for a moment.  He could feel his spark pulsing in his chest.  Around him, the energy of fourteen other mechs pulsed in tandem.  He could feel them tugging at him, like someone had threaded a spool of wire through his spark.  His body was hot, and a deep ache was settling in his frame.

“As Primus guides us, we guide others in turn.  To be a knight is to be hope for the hopeless, life for the dying, salvation for the lost, and illumination to those blinded by the darkness of their own sparks.  Step forward, Drift.”

His body moved mechanically, approaching Dai Atlas.  Chin raised, blue optics met red.

“No two knights are the same, as no two sparks are the same.  And yet we become one through the bonds of light we forge between us.  This room, this moment—this is that forge.  You will be remade here, and emerge as someone new.  And you will carry pieces of each us inside you, lights that will never extinguish.  They will guide you when you find yourself at the precipice of despair.”

Dai Atlas reached forward, the golden brush in his hand, and drew a glyph over Drift’s spark, where his decepticon badge had once hung.

“Change is your mark, Drift.  It is your essence.  You are a shapeshifter, but through the many guises you have worn, and no doubt will, your spark burns fierce and free.  No cage can hold you, no mantra undo your spirit.  You came to us lost, and you remain with us, found.  Tonight, you take up the mantle of a Knight of Light.  These are ties you can never sever, but they are not chains.  There is strength in unity, and faith in brotherhood.”

Drift’s mouth was dry, his head felt light.  His frame was burning.  He could almost smell his own arousal, and it was impossible to ignore the fog of it emanating from other mechs in the room.  They’d all drunk from that flask.  They’d all be burning as much as Drift was.  He shifted his weight from one pede to the other, and a trickle of valve lubricant ran down the inside of his thigh.  It couldn’t be long now, and Drift found himself wanting Dai Atlas to hurry up.  His valve clenched reflexively, aching and empty. 

He’d never desired Dai Atlas before, but now all Drift could think about was feeling that glossa slick against the cables of his throat as Dai Atlas covered him with his massive frame.  His spike would be enormous, but Drift was willing to take nearly anything at this point.  He wanted to wrap his legs around the other mech’s waist and drive that spike inside him as deep as it would go.  How many times would he overload?  He could feel one building already and they hadn’t even begun yet.

“…until the end of all things.  Do you swear, Drift?  Do you swear to uphold our values, and support your brothers and sisters as they will support you?  Do you swear to spread peace and enlightenment throughout the galaxy?  To alleviate suffering where it might be found and live by the laws of the Circle?”

“I swear it,” Drift cried, standing straight and proud despite the faint trembling in his thighs.  His eyes were feverishly bright, and he saw Dai Atlas smile down at him.

“Then it is time we introduced ourselves.  Step up to the altar.”

Drift complied, stepping past Dai Atlas and onto the stone slab.  He turned to face the larger mech, who was nearly level with him now.

“Who are you?” Dai Atlas asked.

“Drift.”

“I know you, Drift,” Dai Atlas said, voice low and resonate.  He placed a hand upon Drift’s chest and gently forced him to his knees, and then onto his back.  “Now you must ask me.”

“Who are you?” Drift asked, feeling himself flush as his legs fell apart before the triple-changer.

“I am Dai Atlas.”  He looked at Drift, who lay there for a moment, staring up at him.

“I… I know you, Dai Atlas.”

“Very good.  Repeat this with every mech here, and once all are known to you, the ceremony will be concluded.”  Drift nodded, vents hitching as Dai Atlas stroked a finger gently down his panel.  Although he hadn’t felt it until that moment, lubricant already coated the armor protecting his interface equipment.

“Are you ready?” Dai Atlas asked.  Drift nodded, snapping back his interface cover and looking up at the ceiling.  He wanted this, and yet he didn’t.  The energon he’d drunk had primed his body, but his mind still needed encouragement.  _Once it’s started, it will be fine_ , he reassured himself as he felt Dai Atlas stroke a hand down his abdomen.  The smaller mech clenched his dentae to keep from moaning as the hand trailed lower and brushed against his pressurized spike.

“Relax,” Dai Atlas commanded as he began to stroke Drift’s spike, drawing him further into that pleasurable haze.  Drift unclenched his jaw and let his mouth fall open, panting as that massive hand left his spike and began to tease at the opening of his valve.  Dai Atlas’ fingers were thick and slippery with Drift’s own fluids as he slid two of them inside, stretching Drift open.  The intrusion burned, but his valve tightened reflexively, sending ripples of pleasure up Drift’s spinal strut.  He groaned and flexed his valve around those fingers as they began to thrust in and out.

 _Glad I broke my seal last night_ , Drift thought as his body relaxed and his mind slipped and stumbled in a warm, wet haze.  It wasn’t long before Dai Atlas had three fingers in him and Drift was on his back, hips arching up, mouth open in a cry of pleasure.  He whined when those fingers withdrew, and something thick and hot replaced them.  Drift gasped as he felt Dai Atlas begin to push his massive spike inside him, inching the tight rings of mesh open, its passage eased by the valve lubricant dripping from Drift’s valve and onto the altar beneath him.

“Dai Atlas,” Drift cried, his fingers digging into the stone as the massive mech seated himself entirely inside Drift.  His valve burned, but it felt so good.  Drift panted.  He wasn’t sure if he’d ever taken anyone this big before.  Instead of shame, he felt excitement thrumming in his lines.

He turned his head to look to the side, to see if Wing was watching this—if Wing could see Dai Atlas taking him in front of everyone.  Would the sight of it turn him on, or make him jealous?  Both?  But he couldn’t see the white jet.  The other mechs around them were standing patiently, observing the sight before them.  Drift turned back to Dai Atlas, feeling self-conscious.  Just because he couldn’t find him, didn’t mean Wing wasn’t watching.  He had to be.  And if Wing was there, Drift might as well make it a show.

He keened as Dai Atlas thrust inside him with long, slow rolls of his hips.  Drift’s valve was gushing lubricants, his whole frame taut and trembling.  Dai Atlas loomed over him, dark and massive, his red optics gleaming.  Drift opened his mouth, but no words came out.  He ran his glossa over the tips of his fangs, and Dai Atlas smiled.  He leaned down to kiss Drift on the helm, and thrust deep inside him.  Drift’s valve and thighs tightened as he overloaded, arms coming up and sinking his claws into Dai Atlas’ side as he jerked and trembled with pleasure.  Dai Atlas groaned above him and he felt a hot rush of transfluid fill his valve, pooling out onto the stone as Dai Atlas pulled out.

Drift released him, energon tipping his claws, and looked up at the ceiling while his body came down from its high.  One down, thirteen to go.

Dai Atlas stood up and left the altar, and Drift lifted himself up to look around.  No one was just standing around and watching him now.  The other mechs stood in pairs or trios, touching each other in various ways.  Every so often a sly look would fly his way, full of promises, and he watched as Axe approached the slab.  Drift spread his knees, gathering himself for another round as Axe knelt between his thighs.

“Who are you?” asked Axe.

“I am Drift.”

“I know you, Drift,” Axe replied, grinning at him.

“Who are you?”

“I am Axe.”

“I know you, Axe.”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” the black mech laughed, dipping his head down between Drift’s legs to lap at the mess of valve and spike.

“Oh!” Drift cried as Axe’s glossa cleaned off lubricant and transfluid, gently stimulating him back to arousal.  Drift had always liked oral interfacing.  A glossa was so much gentler and more wicked than a spike when it came to giving pleasure.  He shivered as it dipped inside him, the walls of his valve clenching to try and catch it as it slipped away, teasing all those secret places inside him that he barely knew were there.  It didn’t take long for Axe to bring him to another overload, his frame loose and trembling.

“You’re doing good, lad,” Axe reassured him, before slipping away.

Drift watched him go, then looked around for Wing, only to see his jet pressed against a white and gold racerframe, his spike pressurized in the other mech’s hand and his mouth open in a sound of pleasure.  Arousal and jealously lanced through Drift’s frame.  Wing would not be the next one to join him, it seemed.  The jet wasn’t even paying attention to what was happening to Drift!

“Who are you?”

Drift turned to see a new mech standing in front of him.  Red and black, with a slim build.

“I am Drift,” Drift answered, looking the mech up and down.

“I know you, Drift,” the mech answered, climbing up onto the platform to straddle Drift’s thighs, immediately grinding back against his spike, now stiff and dripping thanks to Axe’s attentions.  Startled, Drift grasped the other mech’s waist to steady himself, looking up into bright yellow optics and a sly smile.

“Who are you?” Drift asked, the question at last feeling real.

“I am Spitfire,” the new mech replied, settling his hands upon Drift’s shoulders.

“I know you, Spitfire.”

“Not yet, but you will,” Spitfire said, raising himself up over Drift’s spike and then sinking back down.  He whined in pleasure, leaning forward to kiss Drift as his hot valve swallowed Drift’s spike.  Drift gasped into the kiss, rocking up into the knight, his new companion.

Interfacing with a true stranger, Drift was able to see things he had not when Dai Atlas and Axe had been here.  He already knew their sparks.  He’d seen them at their worst, and at their best as they fought for their home and those they loved.  He knew that Dai Atlas exerted control over those around him, but that control was not cruel.  Drift had not felt threatened with that massive shape over him, and the interfacing had been painless.  Dai Atlas was a leader, but also a protector.

Then there was Axe—a kind mech.  Strong and encouraging.  His approach was to guide others to reach their potential, and he knew when a gentle touch was more appropriate than a firm one.  Echoes of these traits had been conveyed through this ceremony and the intimacy of interfacing. 

Drift had not realized it at first, since he already knew this about them.  But with this stranger—no, not a stranger anymore.  Spitfire.  The mech was brash and passionate.  He was forward, but as Drift broke the kiss to sink his teeth into the mech’s collar, he yielded readily.

“Frag,” Spitfire cried as Drift lapped at the small puncture marks he’d made in Spitfire’ throat.  The slim mech bounced in his lap, becoming louder and louder until he overloaded with a cry, his valve cycling down hard around Drift’s spike.  Drift groaned, overloading inside that warm valve.  He gave Spitfire a smug kiss as the mech lifted himself up on trembling legs and slipped away.

Next was a mech named Flicker, who pushed Drift down onto his back after they had greeted each other and straddled Drift’s face, presenting his dripping valve.  Drift devoured it like he hadn’t tasted energon in an era, the warm, heady valve fluids sliding down his throat.  He shivered with pleasure as Flicker moaned above him, rocking into Drift’s nasal ridge and clawing desperately at the smooth surface of the altar.  It was nice to be the one in control sometimes, and Drift felt a pleasure of a different sort when Flicker stroked the plating of his shoulders with trembling hands as he came down from his overload.

As the mech left to join the others, and Drift was left alone again, he realized that the situation he found himself in was not what he had expected.

Two silvery white and blue mechs were next to approach.  “Who are you?” Drift asked.  The mechs smiled at him.

“I am Lithium,” one said.

“And I am Quicksilver,” said the other. 

“I know you, Lithium.  And I know you, Quicksilver,” answered Drift, curious that both of them had approached him at once.

“We are spark twins,” Quicksilver told him, as if reading this thoughts.  “Who are you?”

“I am Drift.”

“Let us know you, Drift,” said Lithium, moving around to the side of the altar and kneeling by Drift’s side.  Quicksilver moved between Drift’s thighs, running her hands along the inner seams.  Drift shivered as Lithium leaned in to kiss him, her fingers roaming his chest while their glossae tangled and Quicksilver leaned in to kiss the head of Drift’s spike.

Drift sighed into the kiss, bombarded on all sides by sensation.  Quicksilver soon took his spike in her mouth, sucking earnestly while her hands teased at the seams and wires of his lower frame.  Lithium continued to kiss him, bringing her hands up to stroke the cables of his neck.  She finally broke away, thumbs resting gently on the line of Drift’s jaw.

“Would you use your mouth on my spike?” she asked.  Drift glanced down to see a long, tapered spike jutting out between her thighs, pearls of transfluid dripping from the tip.  Drift swallowed and nodded, letting Lithium guide his head down until his lips brushed against the tip of her spike.  He took it into his mouth tentatively, his insides tightening at the weight against his glossa.  Slowly, he began to pull it into his mouth, listening to her sighs and moans of pleasure.  Between his legs, Quicksilver slid his spike in and out of her mouth, and as Drift grew bolder and began to do the same to Lithium, the dual sensation of a spike in his mouth and his own in someone else’s began to unravel him.

With another cry, Drift came again, and not a moment later his mouth was flooded with transfluid.  He swallowed it down, sweet like the energon so many of the Circle were fond of.  He felt Quicksilver release his spike with a wet pop, and move up to straddle his hips.  She took his hand and guided it down to her valve, lubricants dripping between his fingers.  He thrust them up inside her, rubbing his thumb on her exterior node until she overloaded with a cry.

“I know you, Drift,” both Quicksilver and Lithium said simultaneously, each kissing one of Drift’s cheeks.  Drift blushed, feeling truly bewildered for the first time since this ordeal had begun.  It did not feel at all like he was being used for the entertainment of others, but that these mechs were choosing to share something with him—that they wanted to touch to him and be close to him only because he was Drift.  It was an experience so alien that he had nothing to compare it to.

His head felt light and he searched the room for Wing, needing something to ground him.  But before he could find the jet, there was a mech in front of him, commanding his attention.

“Optics on me,” the mech said.  Drift bared his fangs, recognizing this knight as the one whom he’d seen with Wing earlier—white and gold like a desert morning.

“Who are you?” Drift asked, a bit more rudely than he might have.

“I am Helion,” the mech replied, looming large in front of the ex-con.  He was not as large as Axe or Dai Atlas, but he had an air of command that Drift instantly recognized, and which he naturally pushed back against.

“I know you, Helion.” Drift said curtly.  Helion smiled, but it did not reach his optics.

“Who are you?”

“I am Drift.”

“Then I will know you, Drift,” said Helion.  Drift sneered at him, defiant.  He did not like this mech, or his imposing attitude.  With his optics, he dared Helion to make the first move.

“Rise,” Helion commanded Drift, who had propped himself up on his hands, his legs spread out and a pool of fluids between them.  Drift arched an optic ridge.

“Make me,” he challenged, wanting to see what the other mech would do.  Helion bowed his head.

“Very well.”

Before Drift knew what was happening, Helion reached forward and twisted him so that he lay on his side.  He struggled to get up, to push Helion off him, but the larger mech pinned him down on his stomach and Drift was only able to raise himself up on hands and knees.  Helion laid his own frame over Drift’s, preventing him from wriggling away.

“Like this?” Helion asked.  Drift hissed, trying to buck the other mech off him.  He only succeeded in grinding his aft up against Helion’s pressurized spike.  Encouraged, Helion rocked himself forward, sliding the top of his spike through Drift’s open valve.  Drift leaned forward to rest his helm on the stone, his aft up in the air and his valve clutching emptily.  His pride was bruised, but his frame wanted more.  If it hadn’t been for that drugged energon, he’d be in recharge already by now.  It seemed that in addition to lowered inhibitions, one of the side effects was a limitless stamina.

“Is this alright?” Helion asked, dragging his spike slowly through Drift’s valve until the tip slipped inside, pressing insistently against the tight calipers.  Drift shuddered.

“Yes,” he gritted out.  “Come on!”  He flexed the calipers of his valve open, allowing the spike to slip inside.  It dragged against sensitive mesh and forced lubricant out of Drift’s thoroughly used valve with a thick squelching sound.  Helion chuckled as Drift cried out into the stone, his valve contracting in reflexive jolts as it was filled with the other mech’s spike.

This was about him, thought Drift as he peeked over the ridge of his arm to see the other mechs in the room all connecting with each other.  This whole ordeal was about him connecting to the rest of the knights, about forging bonds, not extracting service.  _This is creation, not destruction_ , Drift thought as the world he knew was once again up-ended.

There was a twisting in his belly as Helion’s spike slid in and out of him, stretching him almost painfully wide.  Drool pooled from the corner of his mouth as the pleasure mounted through his frame again.  He thought suddenly about organics and how for them this act was primarily a means of procreation.  Through the union of two bodies, new life.  A strange sadness pierce his spark, warring with the physical pleasure. 

He was, Drift thought, finally starting to see the world the way that Wing saw it. 

Beautiful, sad, full of possibilities, corroded with suffering and injustice, but never drained of hope.  He wondered, fleetingly, hopelessly, what it would be like if their kind could create as easily as they destroyed. 

To do this act with Wing, feel the jet inside him and then… a new spark circling around his own.  From hardship, hope.  From love, life.

What would such a being look like?  A child of him and Wing.  They would be beautiful, he’s sure, and more like Wing than Drift if the ex-con could help it.  If he could give such a creation anything, he’d give them his ability to endure everything the universe could throw at him, his sharp mind and quick reflexes, and his ability to change.  Everything else, it could take from Wing.

Drift felt coolant prick at his optics, even as his body tightened in preparation for overload.  Valve lubricant squelched and bubbled out of him as Helion increased his pace.  Why was he mourning a thing that could never be… a life that could never be lived?  He had never desired to be more like an organic, and yet when he thought about himself with Wing… it seemed like something beautiful.

With a final thrust, Helion drove Drift over the edge of pleasure and into an overload that tore through him and left his vocalizer raw from screaming.  He lay on the altar, shuddering as Helion pulled out of him, transfluid sluicing out of his overfilled valve.  Drift groaned, a strand of oral lubricant leaking out the corner of his mouth as Helion ran a gentle hand over the curve of his spine.

The next mech to approach Drift was Doldrum, who drew the shivering, disoriented mech into her lap and teased and kissed him back to awareness.  The night drew longer and continued in a similar fashion, with Drift and the other circle members pleasuring each other in a myriad of ways until Drift knew nothing else.

Fissure.  High Beam.  Gyre.  Black Light.  Telemetrus.

By the night’s end, Drift knew them all.  He had to be close to the end.  He looked around the room and found no strangers left.  But where was Wing?  The one mech that Drift had truly wanted from the start had still not come to him.

“Can you stand one more?” a familiar voice asked.  Drift turned to see Wing standing at his side, smiling.  The air in Drift’s vents stilled, and time ground to a halt.  Of course he would choose to be last, Drift huffed.  Wing was a sentimental mech, but Drift was impatient, and it felt like an eternity since he had touched or spoken with Wing.

“Just one,” replied Drift, before he was aware of it.  Wing climbed up onto the platform, now a mess of interfacing fluids, and knelt in front of Drift so that plating of their knees brushed.

“They say the last mech of the ceremony is a special coupling,” Wing said quietly, pressing his palms against Drift’s chest plate.  “Do you understand the significance of the number fifteen?  Three for Rossum’s trinity, and five for the Guiding Hand.  It’s a divine number.  When you and I do this, then the ceremony will be complete and you will be one of us.  How do you feel?”

“Tired,” Drift admitted, his spark pounding as he drew his hands up Wing’s sides, not quite believing this was real.

“We’ll be done soon,” Wing assured him.

“No!” Drift blurted out.  “I mean.  You don’t have to… this isn’t… it’s not a chore…” Drift fumbled for the right words, growing frustrated.

“It’s fine, Drift,” Wing said, quieting the other mech.  “I know what you meant.  It’s not a chore.  For me, this is very special.  I have wanted you to join us for so long, and to be a part of this ceremony, to see how much you have grown, and to know that you will remain with us…” Wing smiled even more broadly.  “I don’t think I could ever be happier.”

Drift flushed as Wing leaned in to kiss him, kissing the jet back tentatively.  Although Wing was the fourteenth mech he’d interfaced with that night, it didn’t feel like it.  There was life and passion pounding in his lines.  This was what he’d been waiting for.  Wing was the one he wanted.  He wanted him so badly his whole body burned for it.

“How do you want to do this?” Wing asked, breaking the kiss.  Drift blinked, surprised that he had asked.  No one else that evening had.

“I want…” Drift started, the words thick in his throat.  “I want to be inside you,” he whispered, still not quite believing this was real.  Wing shifted so he was straddling Drift’s lap, grinding his open valve against Drift’s spike.

“That’s good,” Wing said, his voice low and sensual.  “Because I really, really—” he leaned in to Drift’s audial, dragging his valve up Drift’s trembling spike until the tip slipped inside, “—want that too.”

Drift gasped, and thrust up into that welcoming heat, feeling Wing part around him, slick and inviting.  Wing shuddered, moaning as he slid down Drift’s spike, clutching at him with tight caliper, his hands gripping Drift’s shoulders.

Drift grabbed the back of Wing’s head and pulled him in for another kiss, deep and wet and messy.  He couldn’t get enough.  He wanted Wing everywhere, every way.  He wanted to have him against every surface and every piece of furniture in the citadel, and then in the dark of their apartment he wanted Wing to take him until he lost his mind from pleasure.

Wing slid himself up and down Drift’s spike, his glossa in Drift’s mouth and his hands clutching at Drift’s shoulders.  It was surreal and incredible.  The jet was heavenly around him, and Drift could feel their sparks beating close together, reaching out for one another.  His mind swam, he wanted to be even closer to Wing, in a way he had never wanted to be close to anyone.  He wanted it so badly that his spark felt like it was about to burst.

He could feel overload approaching, although it was far too soon.  Drift didn’t want this to end yet, when it felt like it had only just begun.  Would he ever have another chance like this?  He wanted to cling to Wing and never let go, but would Wing ever want this again?  Was he just a student?  Did Wing see him as an equal?  The uncertainty of it, even in this intimate moment, was tearing Drift apart.

He felt whole with Wing around him, clutching at him and moaning with his open mouth, golden optics bright with longing.  To lose that would be to lose a piece of himself, the piece that Wing had tucked in next to his spark while Drift wasn’t looking.  To give him something like that, only to take it away would be too cruel.  But all things must end, and when Drift felt Wing tighten around him and cry out, Drift wasn’t far behind.  He held Wing tightly, shuddering as he felt the jet’s valve loosen and transfluid run down his spike.

“Who are you?” Wing asked, after a moment.  Drift looked up into his golden optics, clear and bright as their first meeting.

“I am Drift,” Drift said, simply.  And this time, he truly meant it.  He could feel it in his spark.  Deadlock was gone, and Drift was who remained.

“I know you, Drift,” Wing said, softly, kissing him on the forehead.

“Who are you?”

“I am Wing.”

“I know you, Wing,” Drift said, completing the ritual.

“At last, I think we do know each other,” Wing murmured, rising up off Drift’s spike and snapping his panel closed.  Drift at last closed his own panel, still feeling the ghost of Wing around him, pleasure simmering in his belly.

Wing stepped off the platform and joined the others, who Drift realized were all now standing in a circle around him, with Dai Atlas front and center.  As Drift stood before the head knight, Quicksilver approached him from the side with a cloth soaked in solvents and began to clean his frame.  He smiled at her, realizing with a strange sense of annoyance that Dai Atlas had been right about this ritual, although Drift had not believed him at first.  He did feel closer to the other knights.  He had shared vulnerability with them, and they with him.  He felt that he could trust them, and even that was strange to him.

“It’s time to choose your blade,” Dai Atlas told him once Drift was finally clean.  “Listen to each one, and you will know which one is yours.”  Drift nodded, stepping off the platform.  He walked to the edge of the room and circled the perimeter, ghosting his hand over the pommel of each blade that hung from the walls. 

Voices whispered to him.  Some kind, others cruel.  They reached out to his spark, like flames, and arrows.  Eventually, one called out louder than the others.  Drift lingered over it, feeling it lash and swell against him, whispering promises and visions.  With great effort, Drift tore himself away and finished his round.  At the end, he approached Dai Atlas again.

“I believe I know which one,” he said.  Dai Atlas nodded, and Drift turned back to the sword with the voice like a summer storm, and took it from the wall.  The gem glowed bright in his hand as he held the blade up, a strange wind blowing around him and crackling with energy.

“What is its name?” Dai Atlas asked.

“Wandering Path,” said Drift, the knowledge seared into his spark.

“A fit match,” said Dai Atlas, smiling wryly.  He spread his arms wide.

“It is an honor to have you in our number, Drift.  Bear that blade proudly, and wisely.  The great swords have a power that even we do not fully understand, and a knowledge that is yet untapped.”

“It is an honor to be one of you, Dai Atlas,” Drift responded, the formalities of the ritual already feeling almost natural to him.  Dai Atlas bowed and turned away, the other circle members following after him.  Drift remained, gazing at his new blade.  He could feel its essence twining with his spark, forging a bond that he knew would leave him ragged and fragmented until the end of his days should it ever be broken.  The sword was a part of him, now and forever.

“Are you ready to go back?” Wing asked gently.

“In a moment,” Drift said, turning the sword over in his hand.

“It’s a beautiful blade,” Wing said after a moment, watching as Drift was mesmerized by it.

“It is,” Drift said, tearing his eyes away from it and back to Wing.  _But not as beautiful as you_ , he thought.

“Are you happy with your decision?” Wing asked.  Drift was silent for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he said, truthfully.  “But right now, I think I will be—so long as you’re by my side in all this.”  Wing beamed.

“Unicron himself could not take me from you,” he promised, brushing the back of his hand against Drift’s cheek.  The grounder’s spark fluttered at the touch, and the admission.

“You mean that?” Drift asked, needing to know the answer.  “Even after everything I’ve done?”

“Drift,” Wing said sternly, “I knew from the first moment I saw you that you were special.  Nothing you’ve done has convinced me otherwise.  I am overjoyed beyond words that you have chosen to stay with us, and I hope that you will stay with me.”

The jet smiled, offering his hand for Drift to take.  Drift accepted it, his mouth dry, and Wing led him up the stairs and back out into the city.  The starry night spread out above them, more beautiful than any city or work of art.

“It’s thanks to you I can see the sky every night now,” Wing said as they walked.  “With the whole universe open above my helm, I feel like… anything is possible.  Evil could never triumph in a universe that has such beauty in it.”

“I know what you mean,” Drift said, looking up to the swirls of the galaxy that flowed overhead.  There was much out there he hadn’t seen, and much he still had to do.  The war was far from over, and Drift wasn’t about to pretend it wasn’t happening.  He still had a role to play, though it was not the same one that he’d taken up so many centuries ago.

He looked back at Wing, who was still watching the stars.  The jet was illuminated by it, his white armor glowing in the darkness, more beautiful than any star in the sky.  There was no coming back from this, Drift realized.  He had been lost for a long time already.

“I love you,” Drift confessed, before his courage could leave him.  Wing turned to him, blinking owlishly.  Drift’s faceplates flushed with embarrassment.

“Drift…” Wing murmured, his surprise changing to joy.  “I love you as well.”

“You do?” Drift asked, bewildered.

“Of course!” Wing exclaimed, reaching out to cup Drift’s face in his hands.  “From the moment I found you, I felt we had a connection.  In the time we’ve spent together, it’s only grown stronger.  You’re like no one I’ve ever met, and I want to fight by your side until the day my spark goes out.  If you will have me.”

Drift covered Wing’s hands with his own, and leaned in to kiss him.  It was a soft, gentle connection.  Drift could feel his body trembling, his field reaching out to twine with Wing’s as the jet leaned in to the kiss.

 _This_ , thought Drift, as Wing pressed in close to him, the world around them dark except for the light of the stars above, _must be what home feels like_.

~*~ 


End file.
